Once upon a dreadful time

Corsairs

“Ah, there it is,” said Orbane.

In the distance ahead lay a rocky upjut of an island in the clear waters of the sparkling sea. Even from the height Hradian flew, as they neared they could see that its craggy interior was filled with scrub and twisted trees, though here and there groves of tall pines stood. Some five miles across it was and thrice that around, and the shoreline itself was nought more than a rocky shingle, sand absent for the most part. Massive blocks of stone reared up here and there along the perimeter, but mostly long cliffs of sheer rock rising up from the sea beringed the entire isle. On the far side loomed a fortress of gray stone, sitting atop a low rise jutting out from the fall of the land. On beyond and farther down, another half mile or so, stood a town, curving about a modest bay. Rover ships were moored in the dark waters of the cove, with the arc of the island shouldering up all ’round. Hradian and Orbane could see folk in the streets of the port, and the docks were busy. Farther on, out on the brine, vessels fared away from the bay, while others approached. They were three-masted dhows for the most part, with lateen sails a vivid red to strike fear in the hearts of their victims, for they were corsairs, and this was the Isle of Brados.

As to the fortress itself, roughly square it was, an outer wall running ’round o’er the rough ground, some ten feet high and three hundred feet to a side and five feet thick at the top, wider at the base. A road ran down through a series of switchbacks to the town below.

Between the outer bulwark ringing ’round and the main bastion lay nought but open space, the land completely barren of growth; ’twas a killing ground should invaders come.

Centered within this outer wall and killing ground, the dark citadel stood: also built in a square some two hundred feet to a side, a massive wall stood some fifty feet high to the banquette with towers and turrets along its length and a great courtyard within. And at the very midpoint of the quadrangle stood a tall slender structure, mayhap some seventy feet high, window slits up its length, arrow slits up its sides as well.

And as Hradian and Orbane spiralled down, from somewhere below there came the clanging of an alarm gong, and, on the fortress walls, horns blew, and men pointed upward at the besom-riding pair.

“Acolyte, land on the balcony ringing ’round the top of the tower.”

“Oui, my lord.”

But as they approached, armed and armored men rushed out, crossbows and cutlasses at the ready. Yet with a whispered word and a simple gesture, Orbane halted them in their tracks, and they stood like statues, no longer able to move.

As warders in the courtyard below and upon the fortress walls called out in alarm, Hradian came to rest among the men frozen in place, and Orbane moved past them and into the chamber beyond, his acolyte following.

They came into a large room, with windows all ’round overlooking not only the fortress itself and the nearby surrounding terrain, but also the town below and the dark bay beyond.

In the center of the chamber sat a large round table, a scatter of charts thereon, and at the far edge stood a swarthy and bearded man, also frozen in place.

“My lord,” hissed Hradian. She pointed at an open trapdoor, revealing a spiral stair leading downward. “More come.” But Orbane paid her no heed, and instead stepped to the man and made a small gesture, releasing him from the spell.

As the man raised a forearm in a protective flinch, louder came curses and running footsteps of ascending brigands, and Hradian darted to the trapdoor and slammed it to and shot the bolt, barring the corsairs from entry.

“You have seen but a mere iota of my power,” said Orbane.

The man, in spite of his fright, lowered his arm and glared.

“And you are?”

“I am Orbane.”

Once again fear filled the man’s features; even so, he found his voice. “You escaped?”

“I did.”

“What is it you want?”

“I want to see your commander, for I have an alliance to propose, one that will gain you incalculable riches.” A hint of greed flashed through the eyes of the man. “I am Burque, Captain of Captains.”

A hammering rattled the trapdoor, and voices called out,

“Burque, open the way. We’ll deal with these interlopers.” Orbane sneered at these words. “You command these rabble, Captain?”

“Oui. But, my lord, I ask you to harm them not, for they only seek to come to my aid.”

“Ah, loyalty, eh?”

“Oui, for unlike the days of Caralos, under my command they prosper.”

“Caralos?”

“The former Captain of Captains, slain here in this tower by an unknown hand during a fireship raid.”

“By an unknown hand, eh? Was it not you?”

“Nay, my lord, though oft I contemplated it. Instead it was someone who stole a valuable map ere it could be delivered to the one who commissioned its theft.”

“Well, Burque, ally with me and you will not have to stoop to petty thievery, but instead prosper beyond your wildest dreams.”

“And what would this alliance demand of me?”

“Just that you transport an army of mine from Port Cient to a distant shore.”

“A distant shore?”

Orbane nodded. “Another port.”

Burque frowned and said, “You want to loot the town?”

“Not just the town, but the whole of Faery and all the riches within. And you will share in the wealth.”

“But to dream of conquering the whole of Faery is folly,” said Burque.

Rage flashed in Orbane’s gaze, rage quickly quelled. “The army you will transport will be but a minuscule part of the whole, I merely need you to put them ashore at the nearest place where they can join me.”

Boom! Boom! There came a great pounding on the trapdoor, as if the men below were using a ram.

“My lord!” shrilled Hradian, desperation in her eyes.

Orbane sighed in exasperation and gestured at the entry, and a dead silence fell. Then he turned to Burque. “Well?”

“This army of yours we are to transport from Port Cient, are they assembled? If so, it will take me a good six moons to gather most of the fleet together.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Orbane. “Simply take me to where there are seagulls, and I will send messages to all.”

“You can do that, my lord?”

Again ire at being questioned crossed Orbane’s face, but he held himself in check. “The gulls, Captain, the gulls, and I will have your fleet at Port Cient in less than a fortnight.”

“And this army we are to transport, how many in all? For that will determine the number of ships.”

“Mayhap two thousand or so,” said Orbane.

“Your pardon, my lord, but a mere two thousand does not seem to be much of an army to me.”

Orbane smiled. “If they were just men, then I would agree.

But this is an army of Changelings.”

“Changelings!” blurted Burque. “I am not certain my men will put up with Changelings on their ships.”

“Are you not the Captain of Captains?” seethed Orbane.

“I am, but-”

“Let me put it this way, my Captain of Captains, if you do not transport them, then they will find a way to come unto Brados, and when they arrive they will destroy all that is here.

They are Changelings, and you have no defenses that will stop them from the air and sea and land and under the land. So, you can either move my army for me and win your riches, or not do so and see your fiefdom utterly destroyed and your fleet at the bottom of the sea.”

. .

Three days later, with the agreement struck and the message-bearing gulls long gone, Hradian and Orbane left Brados. The Captain of Captains was glad to be well quit of them, for Orbane had ruined many a woman in the town, and Hradian many a man.

. .

Another day went by, and in the harbor at Port Mizon, a seagull landed upon a dhow, one of the ships captured of recent by a ship of King Avelar’s fleet. The gull, a capsule attached to a leg, did not seem afraid of men, and in fact sought one out. Within a candlemark the missive was in the hands of Vicomte Chevell.

“It is in the old corsair cipher,” said Chevell, peering at the runes. “One I well know.” He reached for a quill and parchment.

Within but moments he had the message decoded. He paled and said, “Oh, my,” and then turned to an aide. “Fetch me a horse.”

As the lad ran away, “A horse, Captain?” asked Armond, former second in command on Chevell’s Sea Eagle but now a captain of his own vessel-the Hawk.

“Oui. I must see the king. It seems Orbane is loose.”

“Orbane loose?”

Chevell nodded. “And that’s not all. The corsairs are sailing to Port Cient to board an army of Changelings and deliver them here.”